When I was a child I stole my father's copy of the Albatross anthology,
which I read obsessively, marking in pencil all my favourite poems, which
one day I would put in a book together. It was I think just English and
American poetry, and it was there I first read Stevens, Pound, HD,
Cummings and many others (I had no idea who they were, and just read them
all, from Herrick to Sitwell). It was edited by Louis Untermeyer, who
also edited my favourite collection of nonsense poems and so was familiar
to me.
Looking back, I have no idea why I was so interested in poems. My
parents weren't especially, although there were books in the house. It
was just something about what amazing things could be done with language
and the kind of joy it gave me. Perhaps it gave me some way of
processing my unhappiness (my parents had a very bad marriage), and I
found there a possibility of beauty that didn't lie to me. But that's
just intellectualising after the fact.
Poetry at school was another matter. I remember an English teacher
coming in one day and aggressively looking around the class: "Hands up
who reads poetry at home?" I did, of course, but didn't dare raise my
hand: the assumption was that nobody did, and if I had admitted to such a
perversity it would have ruined his class. I can't remember anything
about school that would have woken an interest for me, if it hadn't
already been there. I always thought it was because the teachers didn't
like poetry themselves. Poetry to me was something I did at home, away
from the authorities.
Still is, I guess.
Best
Alison
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